unearths some literary gems.
From a Sgt. Beef mystery:
She was, she now explained, glued to the spot. Her heart was going in a manner which she described as “fit to burst,” while at the same time, and rather confusingly, she didn’t know whether she was standing on her head or her heels. A feather, she assured us, would have been sufficient to send her prostrate. But it was fortunate that these metaphors, however mixed, had come into play, for they kept her there to see something else.
“It’s time,” announced Beef, “that we interviewed a parson.”
“A parson?” I repeated, with the air of surprise that is expected of me. “Why a parson?”
“Comic relief,” said Beef; “must have a parson. Wouldn’t be a case without a parson.”
“But you can’t just go off like that and interview a parson.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Beef. “I’ve noticed you enjoy writing about them.”
We drove to some offices in a street off High Holborn and saw the name Starling and Nicholson on the plate at the door. I was relieved to see that I should not have to produce that onerous form of humour at the expense of solicitors firms’ names, and that this one was content with a curt partnership instead of any form of repetition.